


Mirror Image

by eiraparr8



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-17
Updated: 2013-06-17
Packaged: 2017-12-15 06:05:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/846174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eiraparr8/pseuds/eiraparr8
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Keep your hands clean", he told her and yet there's blood on his hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mirror Image

For once, he lingers afterwards, his arms looped around her waist, their legs still intertwined. They’re careful, always careful; it’s a dangerous game they’re playing, and discretion is of the utmost importance. Tonight, though, Petyr remains with Sansa, a sated smile on his lips, and she doesn’t care to remind him of the danger, the recklessness. 

She’s mesmerized by his hand. Blood’s caked beneath his nails-- _my blood_ , Sansa thinks, and waits for the shame, the pain and fear, to overtake her. Her old scars still make her flinch, even as she fights hard to forget about them, but sometimes she can still feel them burning through her clothes; they’re signs, she thinks, of how utterly weak and stupid and powerless she’d been. 

These new marks tell a different story, or at least that’s what she tells herself. 

Slowly she touches his hand, tracing his fingers, his nails, before settling her own besides it. Her own hand appears almost too clean in comparison, and she wonders what it would be like to rake her nails along his skin, to have blood on her hands. _Keep your hands clean_ , he had told her, and yet she thinks that neither of them, really, have had clean hands for quite some time. A twinge of desire courses through her as she thinks of marking Petyr, claiming him. She imagines what it would be like, knowing that beneath his clothes lie the faded scar that covers his chest (a token from your uncle, he told her, his lips curling into a smirk while his eyes remained strangely harsh) and fresh, bright ones. Her own. Her clean fingers impulsively curl around his bloodied ones, her hand pale and fragile and far too clean. 

She sighs as his other hand begins to ghost along her side before settling on her hip, his fingers beginning slow, languid caresses. She doesn’t object-- she never could-- but this, his silence, is disconcerting. Something has happened, but whether it’s good news or bad, he won’t say. It would be easy to think that the news is good, that he’s feeling triumphant and powerful, the master of chaos and control, but she doesn’t quite believe that. There’d been a desperation to his kisses, his hands fighting to regain control, and she wonders if the news was, in fact, bad or at the very least problematic. If the news had spurred his recklessness. For he might have been reckless with her, but there’s no doubt that he’d claimed her, that by covering her back with scratches, leaving bite marks on her skin, he’s only demonstrated his control, his power. 

_Or has he?_   Sansa blinks, remembering that first moment when he’d drawn blood, when she’d gasped and arched against him-- there’d been desire in his eyes, but something else, almost a lingering question there. Doubt, she thinks, and yet she can’t imagine why he would have been doubtful. 

She forces herself to stop thinking like that; however wrong this is, what they have, what they do, it’s far easier to think about that than to think of Petyr somehow not being in control, of floundering like the rest of them. He can’t control everything, but he’s clever, good at improvising, and comfortable enough with chaos to know how to use it. She needs him to be like that, clever and powerful and always in control ( _he’s made her need him_ ). 

“What was the news?” she asks him, her voice quiet but even, betraying nothing. She runs her fingers along his chest, carefully avoiding the scar. 

“What news?” he smirks at her. 

Carefully, she begins to trace the scar, her touch light but deliberate, her gaze fixed on his face as she does so. He’s watching her too (always watching her) and she sees that the smirk is gone from his face, that there’s a strange hint of vulnerability there. 

She shivers and continues her light touches. “You had letters from the capitol and from elsewhere. Has something happened?”

His arm settles around her waist, his hand snaking across her back and tracing the old scars and the new cuts. “What news are you hoping for? The Queen Regent’s demise? Your husband’s death?”

Both, she wants to say, though she wonders at the truth of that. She drops her gaze and he laughs a little. 

“Nothing quite so heart-rendering, my dear. But... interesting nonetheless.” He kisses her hair, lips lingering even though he ( _they_ ) hates the color. “It can wait.”

She wants to protest this, wants to insist on knowing-- there’s danger in not knowing, in being stupid and unaware and learning all too late. But maybe he’s told her too much already. Instead she raises her gaze, runs her hand lower, and begins to kiss him. 

He pushes her onto her back, murmuring something against her neck, her legs falling apart at once. She tries to be quiet as he enters her, tries not to give him the satisfaction, but a moan escapes and she breathes, “ _Petyr_.”

His smirk practically seeps into her skin. 

In retaliation, she claws at his back and he looks at her, slight surprise in his eyes though his hips never stop moving. She does it again, harder this time, and the surprise turns to something else, something she can’t quite read; she smiles a little at this, enjoying the moment of power and ownership, enjoying him. 

He’s able to wipe the smile off her face simply by sliding a hand between her legs, he’s able to reduce her to a quivering, trembling mess who’s reduced to pleading with him, his name becoming a prayer on her lips. 

Part of her resents this afterwards, that’s he can so easily undo her, but a small, reluctant part of her is glad for it. 

Their hands look alike, afterwards: both stained with blood that will have to be scrubbed away. _Clean hands, always._ The marks will disappear too, fading and perhaps vanishing entirely, leaving them only with the old scars, the ones that show they were once different people entirely. There’s a usefulness to those scars-- painful reminders, Sansa thinks, that people are false and that life doesn’t mirror songs, that knowledge is more important than honor, strategy more useful than goodness. But the new marks have a power too, and a small smirk comes across her face-- power, yes, but pleasure too.

She falls asleep with a smirk on her face. 


End file.
